Hardcastle's Obsession (8 page)

Nelson ran a hand around his chin, and shot a worried glance at his captain. ‘There was some bloke Annie reckoned was making a nuisance of himself, so she said. Mind you, sir, I took that with a pinch of salt. These girls tend to say things like that to make you jealous.’

‘Did you ever see this man, Nelson?’ asked Hardcastle.

‘Annie pointed him out to me once, sir, when I was chatting to her on the corner of Wilton Road. He was going into the Victoria Palace. That’s the music hall in Victoria Street.’

‘Yes, I know where the Vic is,’ commented Hardcastle.

‘Anyway, this bloke had some common sort of woman with him, his wife, I suppose,’ Nelson continued, ‘and he never acknowledged Annie. But you wouldn’t’ve expected him to, would you, sir? Any road, I told Annie that if she ever had any bother with him, I’d tell him to sling his hook in a way that’d make sure he never come back again. If you get my drift, sir.’

Hardcastle permitted himself a brief smile. ‘I think I do, Petty Officer.’ Appraising Nelson’s stocky build, the DDI thought that any man who picked a fight with him would probably regret it. ‘Did Annie tell you who this man was?’

‘No, sir. All she said was that he had a “sir” in front of his name, and was something to do with making uniforms for the pongos . . . er, soldiers, sir.’

‘Excellent,’ exclaimed Hardcastle, and turned to the captain. ‘I think that’s all that Petty Officer Nelson can assist me with, Captain.’

‘Very well, Nelson, carry on,’ said Cobbold. ‘And see the surgeon immediately,’ he added.

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Nelson drew himself to attention, turned smartly and left the cabin.

‘I hope that’s been of some assistance to you, Inspector,’ said Cobbold.

‘It might be another piece of the jigsaw, Captain,’ said Hardcastle. ‘On the other hand it might come to nothing. There’s always a lot of work to be done before I have a man standing on the scaffold. But rest assured, I will. Sooner or later.’

‘Yes,’ said Cobbold pensively, ‘I’m sure you will.’ He had quickly assessed the DDI as a man with whom it would be unwise to trifle.

It was almost seven o’clock by the time that Hardcastle and Marriott returned to Cannon Row police station.

Hardcastle sat down in his office and contemplated what to do next.

‘Well, Marriott, all we’ve got to do now is find a “Sir Somebody” who manufactures army uniforms.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But there’s nothing we can do until Monday. Get yourself off home. I dare say your good lady’s wondering what’s happened to you. How is your family, by the way?’

‘All right, sir, thank you. Young James is doing well at school, but little Doreen’s proving to be a bit of a handful. She’s six now.’

‘Girls always are difficult, Marriott, and it only gets worse,’ commented Hardcastle gloomily. ‘And I should know: I’ve got two of them. But our Kitty’s the problem; she insists on working on the buses. It’s no job for a young girl, but I can’t persuade her to change her mind. Maud’s all right though, she’s nursing. Proper job for a girl is that. Anyway, get off with you, Marriott, and give my regards to Mrs Marriott.’

‘Thank you, sir, and mine to Mrs H.’ Marriott had been surprised at Hardcastle’s brief insight into the problem of his eldest daughter. It was a rarity for the DDI to discuss his family.

It was eight o’clock when Hardcastle opened the door of his house in Kennington Road, Lambeth and hung his hat and umbrella on the hooks in the hall. Taking out his chrome hunter, he glanced at the clock next to the mirror. Satisfied that the hall clock was keeping good time, he wound his watch and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket.

‘Is that you, Ernie?’ called Hardcastle’s wife from the kitchen. ‘I’d almost given up on you.’

‘Yes, it’s me, Alice.’ Hardcastle walked into the kitchen and pecked his wife on the cheek. ‘What’s for supper, love?’

‘Chops, mashed potato and cabbage, Ernie,’ said Alice over her shoulder. ‘And a glass of sherry wouldn’t go amiss. I’m fair parched.’ It was Alice’s custom always to have a glass of sherry on a Saturday evening.

‘I think I’ll join you,’ said Hardcastle, which is what he always said when Alice asked for a drink. He went into the parlour and poured a glass of sherry for his wife and a substantial measure of whisky for himself. Taking the drinks back to the kitchen, he put Alice’s glass on the flap of the kitchen dresser, and crossed to the wall by the cooker where he had pinned the war map provided by the
Daily Mail
.

‘For goodness’ sake don’t get under my feet, Ernest,’ said Alice testily. Her use of Hardcastle’s full name was an indication of her frustration. ‘Not while I’m cooking supper. You can make sure the war’s progressing all right when I’m done,’ she added, with a hint of sarcasm.

Hardcastle moved away. ‘Where are the children?’ he asked. Even though they were young adults, he still referred to them as children.

‘Kitty’s on the back shift, home at ten, but Maud will be in shortly. And young Wally should be in from the post office very soon.’

As Hardcastle had explained to Marriott earlier, Kitty Hardcastle was a constant source of worry to her parents, but more so to her father than to her mother. He was always concerned for her safety, travelling home alone at night from the bus depot. But his main concern was the constant danger of bombs dropped by Zeppelins, or from the new menace, the giant Gotha bombers. Young Walter, Wally to his family, was a telegram boy and spent most of his working day delivering the sinister little yellow envelopes that would tell of the death or wounding of a husband, son or brother at the Front. But he was mindful that even that occupation had its dangers; he recalled the death of the young telegram boy who was hit by falling masonry outside the bombed house in Washbourne Street.

No sooner had the Hardcastles sat down to supper than Maud appeared. She walked into the dining room and threw her cape and cap on to a vacant chair. Although only nineteen, her nurse’s uniform gave her the appearance of being much older; she had matured quickly tending the victims of the war at one of the big houses in Park Lane that had been given over to the care of wounded officers.

She crossed the room and kissed each of her parents lightly on the cheek. ‘Is my supper in the oven, Ma?’ she asked.

‘Sit down, love,’ said Alice, setting down her knife and fork and standing up. ‘I’ll get it for you. You look worn out. Busy day?’ she asked, as she made her way to the kitchen.

‘Nine in today,’ said Maud, ‘all Sherwood Foresters’ officers from the Somme. And three of them died before the day was out, one of them while I was holding his hand. He was only twenty.’ Suddenly the cumulative stress of her job overcame her and she burst into tears, weeping uncontrollably.

Hardcastle was always at a loss when confronted by a sobbing woman, and did the only thing he could think of: he poured his daughter a glass of Scotch. ‘There, love, drink that,’ he said.

Maud took a tentative sip of the whisky, the unfamiliar fiery spirit catching the back of her throat.

‘What on earth are you doing, Ernest Hardcastle?’ exclaimed Alice, returning with her daughter’s supper. ‘Is that whisky you’ve given the girl?’

‘If she’s old enough to look after dying officers, Alice,’ said Hardcastle, ‘she’s old enough to have a drop of whisky when she needs it.’ And in an attempt to divert his wife’s criticism, he added, ‘By the way, Marriott sends you his regards.’

‘Marriott?’ exclaimed Alice. ‘Doesn’t your poor sergeant have a Christian name?’

‘Probably,’ muttered Hardcastle, and lapsed into silence.

Ten minutes later, Wally arrived, still in his Post Office uniform.

‘Hello, Pa, Ma,’ he said cheerfully. ‘You’re home early, Maud,’ he added, glancing at his sister, ‘and drinking the hard stuff, too. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.’

‘Oh for peacetime again when everyone came in for meals at the same time,’ complained Alice. Once more, she disappeared to the kitchen, returning seconds later with her son’s supper.

‘Five KIAs, two MIAs, and three wounded today, all in this area,’ said Wally as he began to devour his chops. ‘All Sherwood Foresters from the Somme.’

‘And what might KIAs and MIAs be, Wally?’ demanded Hardcastle. He knew perfectly well what the abbreviations meant, but tried to discourage the use of such military argot by his son.

‘Killed in action, and missing in action, Pa,’ mumbled Wally through the forkful of mashed potato he had put into his mouth.

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Wally,’ cautioned his mother.

As was his custom on a Sunday, Hardcastle checked the accuracy of the eight-day clock on the mantelpiece in the sitting room, and wound it. It was a wedding present from Alice’s parents, and had kept good time for the whole of the 23 years it had stood above the fireplace.

Hardcastle spent Sunday morning reading the
News of the World.
He was particularly interested in an account of the British Army’s recent capture of Thiepval, a village that the Germans had held since the first day of the Battle of the Somme. Now, however, it had fallen to an attack by eight of the new Mark I tanks that had first been used only eleven days previously at that infamous battle. He walked into the kitchen, took a German flag from the war map, and, with some satisfaction, replaced it with a Union flag.

‘We could go for a walk, Ernie,’ suggested Alice after lunch, sensing that her husband was at a loose end.

‘I do quite enough walking when I’m at work,’ said Hardcastle grumpily, and began to read a copy of
John Bull
. But he soon tired of it. ‘Scurrilous rag,’ he muttered, tossing aside Horatio Bottomley’s magazine. He was fretting about his murder enquiry, but knew that there was nothing he could do until the following day. Nevertheless, he regretted wasting time sitting around at home.

Hardcastle was pleased to get back to work on Monday morning. He examined the crime book, but found nothing of pressing interest. The internment of so many aliens under the provisions of the Defence of the Realm Act seemed to have reduced the volume of crime in the capital. And that, Hardcastle frequently said, was about the only advantage of the war.

He shouted for Marriott, entered his office and lit his pipe.

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Marriott.

‘Sit down, Marriott. We’ve got to put our thinking caps on if we’re going to find this toff who’s been consorting with Annie Kelly. I’ve no doubt that there are quite a few firms making uniforms for the army, and I dare say a fair number of their bosses have got knighthoods. God knows why you get made a “sir” just for staying out of the firing line and making a lot of money.’

‘I suppose we could rule out those firms that are out of London, sir,’ suggested Marriott. ‘I believe there are quite a few of these factories in Birmingham, and even further north.’

‘That’s very helpful, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle acidly. ‘But what about those here in London?’

‘I’ll get a couple of DCs on to it straight away, sir.’

‘When you’ve arranged that, come back. I’ve had an idea.’

It took Marriott only a few minutes to set DCs Catto and Lipton to searching for manufacturers of army uniforms in the London area, before returning to discover what his DDI had in mind. It always unnerved him a little when Hardcastle professed to having had an idea.

‘I want all the prostitutes in the Victoria area brought into the nick, Marriott,’ said Hardcastle. ‘Today. And at the same time.’

‘All of them, sir?’ Marriott was aghast at yet another of Hardcastle’s bizarre suggestions. He was aware, however, that his DDI often achieved the right result by way of the wrong route.

‘Every one of them,’ said Hardcastle. ‘I’ll need to arrange for the sub-divisional inspectors here at Cannon Row and at Rochester Row to parade sufficient men to carry it out. I’ll have a word with Mr Tunnicliffe here, and get Mr Rhodes to speak to Mr Marsh at Rochester Row.’

‘What time were you thinking of doing it, sir?’ asked Marriott, wondering how this plan would help in furthering the discovery of Annie Kelly’s murderer.

‘I think nine o’clock tonight would be a good time. That should catch most of the regular tarts.’ Hardcastle refilled his pipe, lit it and walked down the corridor to the office of his deputy, DI Edgar Rhodes.

‘Good morning, sir.’ Rhodes took his pipe out of his mouth and stood up.

‘Mr Rhodes, I’d be obliged if you’d make your way to Rochester Row and ask Mr Marsh if he would arrange for a number of officers to be available at Victoria railway station at nine o’clock this evening. I want all the prostitutes there to be arrested and brought to Cannon Row. Be so good as to tell him that I shall make similar arrangements for Mr Tunnicliffe to assist him. Once you’ve done that, have a word with the inspector in charge of the railway police at Victoria station, and ask for his co-operation in the matter. I dare say he’ll be pleased to have something to occupy his time.’ Hardcastle’s harsh opinion of the railway police was that they had a good conceit of themselves, but had very little to do other than playing at being policemen.

‘Very good, sir. Might Mr Marsh and the railway inspector be told the purpose?’

‘I intend to question all these whores, Mr Rhodes,’ said Hardcastle. ‘One of them must know who was seeing Annie Kelly. And if we’re lucky, she might be able to put a finger on the girl’s killer.’

Hardcastle next made his way to the office of the sub-divisional inspector in charge of Cannon Row’s uniformed police.

Frank Tunnicliffe looked up from the file he was studying. ‘Morning, Ernie. Don’t tell me, you need help from the Uniform Branch.’

Hardcastle took a seat and re-lit his pipe. ‘Victoria station, Frank. There are a load of toms who congregate there to pick up swaddies coming off the troop trains.’

‘I know, Ernie, and one of them got topped a week ago. What d’you want from me?’